


Monstrous Matter of Feast

by Meridians_of_Madness



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Dark Aziraphale (Good Omens), Despair, Food Kink, M/M, Pain, Poisoning, Unhealthy Relationships, blessing as pain, molecular gastronomy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:22:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24993799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meridians_of_Madness/pseuds/Meridians_of_Madness
Summary: Utterly in love and utterly lost, Crowley never turns down an invitation to eat with Aziraphale, no matter what Aziraphale expects him to bear.-Fill for the kink meme prompt foundhere.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	Monstrous Matter of Feast

So, dear, dinner tonight?”

Crowley licked his lips nervously.

“Ah, when you say dinner, angel, do you mean, like... passing time together around sixish, maybe passing something slightly naughty back and forth?”

He had a fine '85 Chateau Lafitte, one that Aziraphale liked rather a lot, and that usually meant -

“Oh no, darling,” Aziraphale said warmly. “I was rather thinking Luli's, that new place over on Vines? You know, small plates, artistic arrangements. It sounds fun, doesn't it?”

“Fun,” Crowley echoed hollowly. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Oh wonderful. See you at six then.”

“Right. See you.”

Crowley listened for the beep on the other end of the line, and a phantom anticipatory burning started up in his mouth, on his tongue, on the sensitive hard palate.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck-fuck-fuck.”

Then he magicked the tears away because, after all, dinner was at six.

*

Luli's was a modern spot tucked in the rear corner of a re-purposed warehouse, stark and rather chilly. The chairs were comfortable though, allowing a proper sprawl as Crowley listened to Aziraphale natter on about the atomized foie gras, the cubes of pure maple flavoring, and the slivers of duck cooked over a butane flame to perfection.

Ordinarily, he would have loved it, bites of a real meal sold for pounds sterling on the gram, and everyone proclaiming themselves quite pleased and likely to stop at a chip shop on the way home. Today, however, he was wound fit to cracking, and finally, he shook his head.

“Ah, angel, you know I can't keep up with you. Just order whatever you like, my treat, of course.”

“Oh! Well, how very... well, how very extravagant of you,” Aziraphale said diplomatically. Then he shot Crowley a significant look.

“But dear, you will be eating, won't you? It's no fun to dine alone.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said sullenly. “Yeah, I will.”

“Oh, how delightful! I must be sure to choose something extra special for you.”

The word _special_ caught Crowley right in the teeth, and there it was. He would crawl for that. He would beg for that, he'd open himself up and let Heaven's finest fuck him one at a time for that, but all Aziraphale wanted was this.

Aziraphale's order to the solicitous waitress passed in a blur, and then the food -ridiculous, tiny, desolate on large white plates and incredibly expensive- started to arrive.

“Here we are, first course, seafood. It's listed as a tribute to Spanish oysters- scallop with gazpacho, cochafina with garlic and a curl of squid, plus a lemonglass infusion. Sounds yummy, doesn't it?”

“Sounds like a scam, angel,” Crowley allowed himself, but he reached for the green paste served on the oyster shell, throwing it back with a hurried grimace. He braced for a burn but instead only found a grassy taste with a steely marine tang after it. It was shockingly tolerable, and a little braver, he chucked the whitish paste on the scallop shell down as well. Rich, buttery, salty and fresh, and he blinked.

“Better than you thought?” asked Aziraphale with a wink, and Crowley nodded.

Next came a tribute to Spanish canning traditions, octopus with eggplant, cumin and cinnamon and a bed of cilantro and carrot supporting extremely expensive caviar. The waitress was back, waving smoke over the dish like some kind of temple virgin, and as ridiculous as it was, served in two vintage tin cans, the taste was actually fantastic.

“It's good,” Crowley said, risking a glance at Aziraphale, who was delicately wiping his mouth after his own caviar.

“Oh, I'm so glad you like it, my dear,” he said, pleased. “I hope you keep on liking it, we have twelve courses to go.”

Next was an upright burnt skewer holding up a single piece of crab tempura, threaded on with a slice of hothouse cucumber and dressed in a jacket of tamarind, coconut, lime and lemongrass before being baptized with a drop of good vodka.

Overconfident, maybe lulled by two courses where nothing bad had happened, Crowley popped the whole thing into his mouth, and then gasped as if he had eaten a hot coal and not some very expensive fusion-Thai seafood.

 _Holy,_ his brain tried to tell him as if he didn't know. _Blessed, hurts-hurts-hurts …_

Somehow, he managed to keep it in his mouth, because he couldn't imagine what would happen- what Aziraphale might do to him- if he spat up food at a place like this.

The burn gave up before it hit his throat, thank Satan, probably not as hard as Aziraphale could bless something he didn't touch, but bad enough. It sat like a lump of rock in his belly, and blinking back tears, he looked up into Aziraphale's pleased face.

“Yes?” Aziraphale asked eagerly, and Crowley nodded, not trusting his voice.

Mushrooms and herbs somehow baked into a crisp that looked exactly like concrete and decorated with a graffiti spray of hot sauce, just fine.

A pat of butter melting over half an artisinal potato suspended over a tiny cypress fire, ditto.

Then came the half-inch square of wagyu beef, plump and pink and pretty, and Crowley just knew.

He looked up at Aziraphale pleadingly, and Aziraphale nodded at him like a parent encouraging a recalcitrant child.

“Go on, dear.”

The first touch of the cube of meat to his lips made them blister slightly and when he chewed, because he had to, he would choke otherwise, the holiness of the meat made his teeth ache. He ducked his head down so that the pained tears would drop into his lap and not his face, and he stopped breathing because otherwise he would scream. The pain of the meat slipping down his throat lasted until it hit his stomach, and he couldn't help a tiny sob from escaping his lips.

“Aziraphale,” he whispered pleadingly, and Aziraphale nodded.

“Oh, it's American bacon next.”

The butterscotch bacon with them was fine, if over-sweet, and so was the balloon filled with rhubarb pie-flavored air.

He put the curry-flavored piece of edible paper, layered with a squiggle of horseradish, into his mouth, however, and it burned, so intense he thought his head might vaporize.

“Let it melt on your tongue,” Aziraphale directed. “This was one I wanted to make sure you got to try.”

Crowley nodded because he couldn't speak anymore. It was burning his tongue, and he knew when he looked at it in the mirror that night, if he had the guts, there would be a perfect rectangle singed into his flesh.

Finally it was gone, and Aziraphale nodded, pleased.

The rest of the meal passed without incident, Crowley miserably eating the tiny bites of food with a mouth that ached and teeth that had eroded more than a little with the heavenly corrosion.

 _Bad,_ his brain tried to tell him. _Wrong. Wicked. Foolish._

 _Yeah, I am all of that,_ he thought.

It was past midnight when he pulled up to the bookshop to let Aziraphale out, and Aziraphale paused, hand on the door.

“I really do have the most lovely time with you, Crowley,” he said, almost shyly. “You do know that, I hope?”

Miserably, Crowley nodded, and then Aziraphale leaned across the seat to kiss him firmly on the mouth.

The kiss burned worse than the edible paper, worse than the shrimp or the wagyu. Those would only discorporate him. This would destroy him, and he drank it down greedily because this was worth it, was always worth it, always would be, always had been.

When Aziraphale pulled back, his cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright.

“You taste so good,” he whispered. “Just right.”

Crowley moaned softly, nodding.

'Well, then. Next week, darling?”

Crowley nodded again, and when the angel closed the bookstore door behind him, he pressed his forehead against the wheel and started to cry.

**Author's Note:**

> Menu adapted from Alinea-Madrid.


End file.
